


Look back, and smile on perils past

by pollitt



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post S4, Post-coital contemplation and conversation, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Emerson bunches the pillow under his cheek and looks Joe with that smile of his. The one that made Joe kiss him the first time, and the fourth (the second and third kisses belong to Emerson), and the uncountable times in the hours since.</i>
</p><p>(Set post S4. No spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look back, and smile on perils past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamer_98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamer_98/gifts).



> Quote from Sir Walter Scott. Written for fandom stocking. Beta by the ever-wonderful dogeared. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Happy holidays, dreamer_98!

Emerson bunches the pillow under his cheek and looks at Joe with that smile of his. The one that made Joe kiss him the first time, and the fourth (the second and third kisses belong to Emerson), and the uncountable times in the hours since.

“Wasn’t expecting... Ever, really,” Emerson admits, rubbing at the side of his mouth with the back of his fingers. There's a slight rasp as the skin brushes against stubble, and Joe remembers the scratch against his own skin. "If I had, I would’ve shaved. I have a kit in my desk and --”

He looks right, stretched out on Joe’s sheets, in Joe’s bed, his curls stuck sweatily to his forehead and a flush still high on his cheeks. He looks right and this feels right in a way that Joe hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“Stay,” Joe says, asking more than telling. He lets his gaze travel over the length of Emerson’s body. He flinches when he sees the scars that stripe (the word twists a knot in Joe’s stomach) Emerson’s buttocks and upper thighs.

“Joe,” Emerson says, quietly, and it’s still new, to hear his name from Emerson’s lips. It makes Joe’s skin feel tight and electric.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, running his hand from the dip of Emerson’s back and over the offending raised lines.

“You didn’t do it.” Emerson says it so matter-of-factly that Joe lets out a laugh, amazed and humbled at the certainty behind his statement.

“I could’ve believed.” Joe reaches for the fading scar at Emerson’s temple. “Not just then. Other times. I could have…”

“No talking work.” Emerson takes Joe's hand and guides it to his lips. He kisses the center of Joe's palm. "Not here." Emerson shifts onto his side, facing Joe, and presses his lips against Joe's wrist. "Especially not here.”

"Okay," Joe agrees, letting those thoughts be chased away by the feel of Emerson's kisses tracing a path upward along his arm, by the warm length of Emerson's body fitting against his own, and by that now-familiar smile that finally reaches his waiting kiss.


End file.
